


Sky's Last Storm

by Prince_of_Leaves



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-26 13:13:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18717778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prince_of_Leaves/pseuds/Prince_of_Leaves
Summary: Theon watches the dragons. He wonders what it would be like to fly and to be free.





	Sky's Last Storm

The sea and the sky wrap themselves around the ship, holding it captive. There is nowhere for him to go now, to see beyond the mists that seem so everlasting, he cannot imagine an ending. He holds a hand over his heart and it beats rushed and afraid, wary that once again, he will be hurt.

Theon thinks of all the kinds of captivity he has been kept in. Perhaps it was the reason to why he existed, to be held ransom at different castles and by different types of people. He does not know if he did it well anyway. It did not seem to matter much, having a Theon Greyjoy, seeing as no one seemed to truly miss him. It would be good though, to be missed. 

To have someone wait for you, to have so many random things to say to you, all these words that would seem so meaningless to anyone else, but to you they’d be like a million tiny treasures, to be held onto like you were all that mattered. He wanted to know how it would be, to be liked as Theon, not because of the family he was born into, neither the one he grew up in. 

Theon took out his knife and carved his name into the wood. He traced his fingers over the letters and wondered who he was. He was not quite sure. A person only mattered because of the preferences they’d collected through their life and Theon barely recalled choosing anything besides that which kept him in favor with those around him, only so that he could survive.

He was good at being almost but not quite dead, he supposed miserably, no matter how morbid the scenes around him were. The winds were curt and cold against his skin, cutting into it, and covering his eyes with his hair. It was white and almost silver, like ice and wicked words and other mournful memories. It used to be black and almost over his shoulders. He would braid it and tie it up with leather string. One day, a girl might brush it for you, someone would say, one with curls and laughter so overwhelmingly joyful, the sun would come out to hear it. Once, he would have believed that, he would have known how to dream.

Angrily, he shoved his hair back behind his ears and blamed the sea for all the cruel happenings in his long, long life. Oh Theon felt like he had lived for a hundred years. He did not particularly want to live any longer, but here he was, somehow alive, which was quite extraordinary seeing as though he could barely chew. It would be so good to eat something hopeful, like roasted meat and fresh bread, instead of having to painfully swallow things that were sad and moldy. 

If he was able to eat better, then he could get stronger too. He was still very slight, all bones and skin and sometimes he could barely stop shivering. Theon supposed that he might make a good enough snack for the dragons. They could eat him if they wanted to, seeing as they are, unlike him, in full possession of all their teeth.

He wondered if he became a wight, or whatever it was that everybody was so scared off, that he might be able to grow all his teeth back. If there was a cure, which he was sure there had to be, seeing as if people knew so much about it for a million years or so, they could bring him back to being Theon.

All the old wardens and the new queens are in constant fear of the dead. Theon had lived in fear of the living and he can hardly believe anything could be scarier than all he had been through. Perhaps that’s why they’re so wary of him. If anyone had seen him when he had just been saved, they might have thought they’d found the first white walker.

As it is, they don’t treat him much better than one. It does not even matter that he is the Heir to the Iron Isles. The title seems to be deliberately forgotten by all, as if their wish is that Theon would die quickly so they wouldn’t have to look at him. 

They hardly ever do. They are all entirely insufferable. 

Theon misses good company. He hardly speaks anymore but he can listen. All everyone ever seems to do is laugh at him. It is so entirely and absolutely and ridiculously unfair that they feel he still has to offer up more of himself to be forgiven. Theon is not sure what else he could give to be a better person. They obviously want his life. It is as if they think all that he has suffered was not enough, when death would have been a better mercy. 

The deck is empty of none besides him and he is so utterly and entirely lonely. Although the waves rush furiously and thunderously against the boat, it feels so fiercely quiet, that Theon isn’t quite sure where he is for a moment. After awhile, almost forever, it starts raining. Rain always feels like hope.

Theon knows he is more than a shadow. The real Theon would make you laugh so much you would forget all your troubles. He would always listen to you and make sure you were safe and that you would never cry and you could sit together and look at the stars and you would always be warm. 

The skies will clear and they’ll sail again. It seems like everything can brighten up, can become wonderful and generous. He can too. All he needs is for someone to see him, beyond houses and pledges, to just see Theon. Then maybe he’ll want to live. 

Then maybe he’ll get to love and maybe, to be loved.


End file.
